


Instigation

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Drunken Flirting, First Kiss, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Sloppy Makeouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-24
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-15 12:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1305571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Watching Death Scythe is a little like watching an actor on a stage, so confident in his own importance that he is always certain of an audience." Death Scythe performs, and Justin watches, and Death Scythe notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instigation

Death Scythe has had too much to drink.

This is a frequent occurrence, Justin has learned. He is bad at listening but good at watching, a learned compensation for the sound of his usual headphones, and he has watched the older weapon until he can recognize the flush of alcohol-induced blood just under the redhead’s cheekbones, the inebriated drift of blue eyes, the languid drape to the other man’s limbs like he can’t be bothered to maintain the rigid set to his bones.

Justin has had nothing to drink. He has a glass in his hands -- as a Death Weapon, no one in Death City will refuse him anything -- but he’s been curling his fingers around it for so long the liquid inside has gone body-warm instead of crisp and cool, and he’s sure now that even Death Scythe would refuse to drink it. But his goal here isn’t to drink or get drunk. It’s not even to be seen, really. His goal is in the other Death Weapon, the one he’s been watching all night from across ChupaCabra’s as the redhead’s movements get more and more fluid and less and less self-conscious.

It’s not that Justin really envies Death Scythe. The man has fucked up most of the good things in his life; at this point the one high point he still has going for him is his status as a Death Scythe, and he has managed to maintain that due largely to Lord Death’s taste for traditional weapons rather than inherent skill, as far as Justin can tell. And the blond could get drunk every night, if he wanted, could collect women for himself if he didn’t find the thought faintly repulsive, as he tends to find any sort of physical contact faintly alarming. It’s just...different, a different way of interacting. Watching Death Scythe is a little like watching an actor on a stage, so confident in his own importance that he is always certain of an audience. And Justin is very good at watching, very good at observing, until he has started to feel that his presence in Death City is largely to serve as a sounding board for Death Scythe’s own expansive play, just so that someone is always watching the redhead.

Right now, at least, the older weapon has an extensive audience; he has a girl on his lap and two others leaning over the back of his chair, one on either side, and Justin knows they’re just doing their job, but the laughter he hears in the absence of his headphones is a little bit brighter than feigning could possibly make it. He takes advantage of the moment to abandon his drink on the table in front of him and make his way down the shadowy corridor that leads to the restroom. Possibly it’s to conform to some requirement, that all bars need to have the darkest, most questionable bathrooms, but the lighting from the main room vanishes as soon as he rounds the corner so it’s hard to see just from the drop in lighting.

When he comes out, he nearly runs into Death Scythe before he realizes there is someone in front of him. As it is he startles and has to throw out a hand to catch his balance; his fingers hit shoulder, the weight of physical resistance, and he snatches his hand back with an unthought apology on his lips.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” His voice is too loud, he can hear it echoing in the small space, and Death Scythe flinches back before pulling up a lopsided smile.

“Ah, you’re fine.” The redhead reaches out, ostensibly to offer comfort, but the hand on Justin’s shoulder stiffens the blond’s spine and is too heavy for just a casual touch as the older man wobbles and catches his weight on the smaller. “‘S no big deal.”

Justin waits for the hand to move but it doesn’t. From the way Death Scythe is leaning on him, he’s not sure the other can keep his balance if he  _does_  let go. After a moment just long enough to draw past the edge of comfort, the redhead blinks into Justin’s face and speaks again.

“Hey. Justin.” His words are sliding together, slipping over his tongue until Justin can barely distinguish one sentence from another. “You’ve been staring at me all night.” The grin is getting wider, the hand heavier. “What’s the problem?”

Justin doesn’t blink or pull away, although he is feeling the heat from each of Death Scythe’s individual fingers seeping through his clothes and into his skin. “I’ve been watching how you interact with people outside the Academy.” His words are clear and crisp, like he’s biting them off one right after the other. They are also true, although from the way the redhead raises an eyebrow the scythe doesn’t believe them to be.

“That sounds awfully boring.” Death Scythe’s fingers tighten into a deliberate grip. “Only think, you  _could_  be pining away for your older coworker.”

The idea is so startling that Justin laughs before he thinks to protest the absurdity. “ _What_?”

“Don’t look so shocked,” Death Scythe huffs. He steps in closer and the toes of his shoes bump against Justin’s boots. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone has been nursing a crush on me.”

Justin’s eyebrows come up. “Oh  _really_? Who else? I’m fairly certain Marie has dedicated her life to Stein, at this point. And Azusa can’t stand you.”

“A gentleman would never tell,” Death Scythe observes.

“Good thing I’m asking you, then,” Justin shoots back, and he realizes this might constitute flirting just as Death Scythe’s fingers come sideways and the edge of the other man’s index finger bumps against his neck.

“I knew you were able to smile,” the redhead purrs, like he’s won a bet. Justin’s definitely not smiling now; his mouth is flatlined with uncertainty, and the touch against his neck is shifting until he can’t pretend it’s not deliberate, and Death Scythe reaches out to lay his other hand flat on the wall beside Justin’s head so his arm forms an impromptu wall.

It’s not that Justin couldn’t twist free. It would be easy, not least because he has a major advantage in both sobriety and speed, and there are some cases where not having and not  _needing_  a meister is a major advantage. He could likely get the other weapon to back off just by a frown or a word of protest. But he doesn’t really  _want_  to protest, and his mouth isn’t forming into a frown, so he stays where he is and keeps watching Death Scythe.

The redhead is waiting, like he’s expecting some sort of cue, and after a handful of heartbeats apparently hesitation is all he needed to receive. His smile curves wider across his face, less calculated but more honest, and he leans in closer, until Justin can smell the tang of sake on his breath and feel the brush of red hair against his cheek.

“So what d’you think?” Death Scythe’s voice is low, probably intended to be seductive, but the slur of inebriation undermines the deliberation even as it adds to the involuntary charm. His weight is coming in harder against Justin’s shoulder; if the blond moves his cheek or mouth or chin will bump against the older man’s skin. He doesn’t move, except to follow the slip of Death Scythe’s eyes as they move over his features, linger against his mouth before coming back up to meet Justin’s.

“About what?” Justin asks.

There is a smile that Justin can’t make out, but he can see it crinkle in the corners of the scythe’s eyes. “Pining for me, of course.” He brushes his nose against Justin’s cheekbone and the blond isn’t sure if it’s deliberate or an accident of balance. Then there’s a touch on his mouth, and it takes a minute before Justin realizes that Death Scythe is kissing him. His thoughts are much clearer than they probably out to be, given that it’s the first time he’s properly kissed anyone. The other man’s mouth is warm against his but his lips just feel like skin, if softer than fingers, and there’s a bite of alcohol under the contact that Justin’s not entirely sure he likes.

The touch against his neck turns into fingers, slides up behind his ear and into his ear, and the contact makes Justin shudder and gasp in shock -- he did  _not_  know that that patch of skin was so sensitive -- and Death Scythe’s tongue comes past his lips and into his mouth, and when adrenaline hits Justin’s calm consideration his steadiness dissolves like sugar in hot water. There’s a thumb pressed in hard behind his ear, and fingers scraping against his scalp, and those are both offering a  _lot_  more sensation than his own hands do. Death Scythe tastes like alcohol, but mostly his mouth is hot and wet, both overriding the burn of the alcohol on his tongue, and when Justin shifts his own tongue there’s a spike of excitement that runs straight up his spine to flush hot at the back of his head. He reaches out and his hands hit cloth and the resistance of body, and Death Scythe steps in closer so Justin’s hands are pinned between his own chest and the other weapon’s.

Justin rocks back and his shoulders hit the wall; he didn’t realize he was that close to the support, but Death Scythe leans in closer and Justin’s head is starting to spin into warmth and confusion and excitement, like his blood is effervescing under his skin, and he can’t remember when he last took a breath and can’t decide if he needs one now. Then the other man slides his thumb against Justin’s ear, and the blond’s knees go shaky and his hands make fists in the redhead’s jacket to hold himself up. When Death Scythe chuckles Justin can feel the vibration of sound in his mouth, and there are fingers skimming along the bottom edge of his shirt to seek out more skin-to-skin contact. Justin’s breath is coming too fast, his head is floating away into a haze of pleasure and confusion and  _sensation_ , mostly, overriding reason and attention and sanity until when fingertips come up hot over his ribcage he hisses and moans at the sensation before he can catch back the sound.

The wall is pressing against his shoulderblades and when Death Scythe’s hands push at his hips his back hits the wall, the chill scrape of the surface grating over his skin; Justin notices the sensation without really caring about it. There are more important things with which to concern himself. Death Scythe is panting against his mouth, every inhale from the other man pulling their lips apart, but when he comes back in his mouth hits Justin’s cheek or chin and it’s almost as good as the contact of lips on lips, warm friction where Justin’s not used to feeling much of anything. Justin’s hands are up from Death Scythe’s shirt, tangling into the other’s red hair; it’s softer than he imagined, so fine it catches on calluses he didn’t know he had, and it keeps sliding away when he tries to push it back away from Death Scythe’s face. There’s pressure against his hips; he thinks for a moment it’s the other weapon’s hands, but then he rocks up or Death Scythe rocks in and he realizes the older man has his leg between Justin’s a moment before he realizes he’s hard and grinding up against the older man’s hip. Justin groans and Death Scythe purrs, slides his tongue messily over the blond’s lower lip, and Justin feels like his skin is on fire and hyper-sensitive, trembling in response to moisture and friction until he’s not sure where he’s being touched or with what, just that he  _is_.

There are voices at the end of the hallway, high feminine trills: “Death Scythe! Mr. Death Scythe, are you still in there?” The man in question responds slower than Justin, so the blond has gone frozen with panic and has enough presence of mind to take in the drag of fingers through his hair and the hot slide of Death Scythe’s mouth over his as the redhead pulls back. The older man tips his head to look towards the hallway and shouts, “On my way!” before he shifts his leg away. With a moment to breathe Justin is more flushed from embarrassment than anything else, but he still has to bite back a whine of protest as the pressure of the other man’s body pulls away.

Death Scythe tips his head back and drags his fingers through his hair to pull it into some semblance of order. The fine strands fall out of the mess Justin’s hands have made of them to lie smooth over his shoulders again, and when Death Scythe brings his head back down and grins he looks remarkably steady, given that his tongue was in the other’s mouth not a minute ago.

“Presentable?”

He is, as far as Justin can tell. His shirt is still tucked in, and even as the blond stares and collects his thoughts Death Scythe is straightening his tie and the edge of his pants. The movement draws Justin’s gaze down to the faint outline at the front of Death Scythe’s slacks before he jerks his gaze back up, flushing dark, to meet the older man’s grin.

“Good thing you don’t wear lipstick,” the redhead says. He reaches out to brush his thumb against Justin’s lower lip, as if to indicate, and whatever protest Justin had formed evaporates under the touch into a breathy exhale. “Take a couple deep breaths and you’ll be fine.” And he’s turning, moving away before Justin can decide whether he wants to push him away or pull him back in.

Death Scythe looks back as he turns the corner into the main room, flashes his teeth in a grin and winks ostentatiously; then he’s gone, accompanied by a chirp of delight from his assembled fans, and Justin is left in the shadows. After a minute he goes back into the bathroom, where he can watch the color fade from his cheeks and reshape his mouth until it doesn’t look quite so kissed, and considers that if Death Scythe  _wanted_  to be pined after, he chose the right way to go about instigating it.


End file.
